


Just A Little Change

by auroreanrave



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Backstory, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Monsters, Mystery, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build, Survivor Guilt, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is the provincial clerk traded by his father to the secluded and mysterious Lord Snow in exchange for financing his business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleromancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/gifts).



> A 'Beauty and the Beast' fusion inspired by a conversation with my friend and SamxJon colleague cleromancy. Hence, this one is a birthday gift from me to both him for his birthday, but to myself for my own today.
> 
> Title, obviously, comes from 'Beauty and the Beast' from the Disney animated film.

Sam looks up at the castle, peering at it through his eyeglasses.

It’s foreboding and dark and Gothic in the most classical sense. No one from the village comes near here. Even the bravest and rowdiest of children avoid the Snow Mansion for a good clear mile, and these are the same fearless brutes who scale towers.

The wedge of paper in Sam’s hands is growing slippery with sweat. His hands, big and unwieldy, are smearing the ink on the paper. The terms of his contract, the conditions he and his father provided to Jon Snow, tremble between his fingers.

Lord Snow, wealthy following the wars that had raged over a decade over, thanks to the inheritance left by his father, had retreated to self-induced isolation, with only a single delivery every few weeks of food and wine and such, and a servant girl from the same far north as Lord Snow himself. The only reason Sam is here at all, is because Sam’s father’s business had been struggling, and Lord Snow had offered to finance the business...

In exchange for Sam.

Sam has skills that his father does not consider useful. Hell, on many a day, Sam himself considers them useless. Sam is large and fat and slow, and he has no talent as a hunter or a farmer. He likes books, can read better than anyone else he knows, and Lord Snow had requested someone who could read and write and be dictated at. Lord Snow, Sam thinks, has a great deal of correspondence to deal with. People who owe him money, people begging for money, news about his flourishing assets.

In the middle of his reverie, the iron gates creak open. Sam takes a step back, and he wonders how far he could run. His father offered him either this, or being sent to the monastery as a new novice, let alone a postulant, or suffering a mysterious hunting accident in the woods at the hand of his younger brother. But Sam does not care for the clergy - their idea of helping people is to pray for them, in their comfortable abodes, not out where their help is needed.

Sam takes a deep breath, and steps forward bravely. Far much more bravely than he feels.

The walk up to the Snow Mansion is short, but beautiful. The paving underfoot is fresh, easily laid within a year or two, and though the windows hide the inside of the mansion through dark curtains drawn across them, the windows are clean and bright.

Sam knocks on the door. After a long moment, it swings neatly open. Sam’s free hand tightens on his shoulder bag - full of books and some clothes and anything he might need. He’s here for three months, although Sam suspects his father wouldn’t miss him if he never returned.

Sam steps, slowly, into the foyer of the mansion. Behind him, a breeze drifts the door shut.

The mansion is, despite all of Sam’s reservations… _beautiful_. The windows are large and clear, and the walls are wood-panelled. The foyer stretches out, and although all of the doors to the rooms are closed, the staircase in front of him splits into two in front of a beautiful landscape scene.

He steps closer to look at the painting. It’s of a castle, ancient and proud, rising from the depths of an icy field, its turrets crusted with a layer of snow, and shining in the sun.

“That’s beautiful,” Sam says to himself.

And then behind him, a voice sparks into life. “It is.”

Sam turns - to see Lord Snow, in the flesh.

Lord Snow is the same height as Sam. Slim, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He’s wearing the shirt and trousers of a high lord, made of material Sam could only dream of touching, let alone affording. Lord Snow’s features are hidden underneath a dark hooded cloak, but Sam catches glimpse of pale skin and eyes are blue as roses.

Sam blushes. Lord Snow is attractive - far more than he ever could have considered. Continents away from the snarled beast everyone in the town had declared him to be.

“I - uh - Lord Snow, I’m, uh - “

“Samwell. Randyll Tarly’s son. Yes, I know.” Lord Snow’s voice is a low and rough and Northern, as deep as the ocean. He lifts his head to look at Sam, even though Sam cannot meet his gaze through the thick hood.

“I, um… I understand you want someone to help you with your correspondence - “

Lord Snow cuts him off, moving to stalk away down a corridor. “I need someone to deal with the minutiae I have no time nor patience for.” Sam follows him, carrying his bag and paper.

Lord Snow leads them down the corridor, towards a small, sunlit drawing room. The walls are the colour of fresh milk, and the solid oak writing table is big enough for three alone to do their work. The room smells of honeysuckle from the open window. Sam feels relaxed here; this room is akin to what he imagines heaven is like.

“Here is where you’ll do my correspondence and any other tasks I see fit.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Lord Snow stops on his way out of the room, and then nods, briefly. “I’ll show you to your room.”

He leads Sam up the stairs, past the painting of the winter castle that lingers in Sam's mind. Sam feels horribly underdressed and dirty in his clothes, clothes that are a little bit too small and have had to last for a couple of years. Lord Snow, fortunately, doesn’t seem to mind.

The bedroom he takes Sam to is large, with walls as white as alabaster, and a four poster bed that looks as soft as a cloud. There’s even a small bookcase, with leatherbound tomes. Simple, and elegant. Sam cannot believe he’ll be able to sleep here, maybe even spend time here when he’s not working.

“I hope you find the room comfortable.” Lord Snow says. His hands are on the doorframe. Large, wiry, hairy. Sam averts his gaze and returns it to the room.

“Thank you.”

“Dinner is served at seven in the evening. I dine alone in my study, but should you need anything, Gilly will be able to provide you with whatever you need.” Lord Snow makes to leave, then stops. Pauses. “This… arrangement. I hope it will be a satisfactory one. For both of us.”

Sam nods, dips his head a little. “I hope so, too, Lord Snow.”

Lord Snow leaves, without a word, and Sam turns to the small armoire against one whitewashed wall, to begin to unpack his meagre belongings.

For a moment, he thinks he feels Lord Snow’s eyes on his back, warm and watching. But when Sam turns, there’s nothing there.

He turns back to unloading his books, and looking out of the window outside, while the same warmth fails to fade from his back for a long time.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam discovers the garden and learns more than he thought he would...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is now online! The Winterfell roses are discussed and hints are dropped. Enjoy!

The garden is the most beautiful Sam has ever seen.

That’s not to say there’s a high bar for comparisons - his town is sprawling and flat, and the only flowers in the woods are spindly and white and used as balms to cure poisons and infections. Sam has never seen such colourful flowers in front of him - only in the books he borrowed from old Master Aemon.

The blue roses are the centrepiece.

They’re… well, extraordinary. Sam thought that they were part of legend. A myth. The blue roses of the North, bred by a handful of the larger villages and houses. The legend goes that the sole rose to survive the long, harsh winter, was kissed by an ice maiden with eyes are blue as the sea, and turned blue as reward. The book in his hand tells him the same, an illustration inside matching the rose perfectly.

The memory of Lord Snow’s eyes comes back into his head, and the words he’d used to describe them. His eyes are as blue as roses, Sam had thought, and had thought it strange. Now, perhaps, it is somehow even stranger now.

The sound of polite coughing behind Sam breaks his reverie. He turns to find a young woman stood a few feet away. Her long blonde hair is behind her ears, and she’s wearing a comfortable-looking, long woollen shift that indicates a maid in a highborn household.

“Excuse me, sir? Are you Randyll Tarly’s son? The scribe?”

Sam nods, rising to his knees, and dusting off the dirt from his trousers. “I - I am. My name’s Samwell, but everyone calls me Sam. Your name is?” He extends his hand in greeting.

The girl blushes and smiles, before placing her basket of laundry down onto the ground, to meet his gentle grasp. “I’m Gilly. Lord Snow’s maid. He said that you would be coming today. I hope your room is acceptable.”

“It’s - well, it’s the nicest room I’ve ever slept in. Not that I’ve slept in it,” Sam corrects, “not yet anyway. The gardens are beautiful.”

“They are. I spend as much time out here as I can, when I’m not preparing Lord Snow’s meals or sweeping the castle floors and such.”

“I hope he doesn’t work you too hard.”

Gilly smiles. She looks nothing like the other maids in Sam’s village - Gilly’s cheeks are rosy and she looks well-fed. “No, sir. He keeps to himself most of the time. Shuts himself up in his study every night, unless he has a meeting. I expect he’s told you not to expect him for dinner tonight?”

Sam nods. “He has.”

“Very well then.” Gilly moves away, picking her basket up again, and making to go.

“Actually, Gilly?”

She turns.

“Can you tell me… why does Lord Snow have blue roses?”

Gilly squints a little, for a moment, before her expression relaxes once more. “They’re Winterfell roses. He brought them with him, I think. I asked him once, a couple of years ago. He told me, ‘they’re all I have left, Gilly’.”

Sam nods, and watches as Gilly heads back into the manor. He almost sits back down to look at the roses, at their deep, cobalt colour. Instead he picks up his book and heads back inside.

* * *

Sam dresses for dinner later that evening. He elects to wash, and finds that someone - obviously Gilly - has left a pail of hot water beside the bath in the room across from Sam’s. He’s never had indoor bathing before - just used to walk down to the river whenever necessary and bathe there.

When he’s spent a decadent amount of time soaking in the blissful heat of the bath, Sam dresses in his neatest clothes and heads down the winding staircase down to the ground floor. On his way, he passes the painting again. He only gives the picture a cursory look, but the memory blazes for a long time afterwards, of a castle in snow and ice, and -

Sam pauses on the stairs. He turns back to the painting and steps forward to squint a little at it, peering through his eyeglasses.

Yes. He knew he’d seen it.

Nestled along one wall of the castle, far enough away from the general perspective of the painting, are small blobs of blue, distinct enough in shape to be Winterfell roses themselves. The castle was in the middle of a snow flurry, and despite the slow, gentle cascade, the roses growing up the side of the castle could be clearly seen.

“Mr Tarly? Sir?”

Sam turns. At the bottom of the steps, Gilly is stood, hands clasped patiently.

As he moved down the stairs, Sam began to speak. “Gilly, I don’t suppose you know if Lord Snow has ever - “

“Sir,” Gilly says, cutting him off firmly. “Lord Snow is expecting you for dinner.”

Sam pauses, then looks towards the room in question. Dusk has settled upon the estate, and candles lit the way. Underneath the chink of the heavy wooden door, Sam can see candlelight.

He lets Gilly lead him to the door, and pushes it open, stepping in as to give Sam the full entrance. Sam steps inside.

The dining room is smaller than he anticipated. The walls are white and sumptuous, with gold veins spiking through the joins to create a sense of divine structure. Paintings line the walls, and the dining table itself is a slab of solid oak.

Lord Snow is sat one end of the table, away from the door. He’s wearing the white suit, black jacket, and black trousers of a nobleman. All pristine and freshly starched and tailored. For the first time, Sam can see his face in full profile, illuminated by the soft candlelight. His hair is dark and curled, and his eyes are a fierce grey. His lips are plush with pink. Sam is struck.

 _Why I thought this eyes were blue I have no idea_ , Sam thought. He composes himself.

“Lord Snow, I wasn’t expecting you.”

Lord Snow’s eyes are level at his, even as Sam takes his seat opposite from him. Gilly begins to present the food. It smells delicious, and he tells Gilly so. She turns pink a little from Sam’s words and smiles as she leaves them to their meal.

“She’s a sweet girl. Where did you find her?”

“She’s from one of the villages up north. Her family died during one of the bouts of the greyscale. She only survived by divine grace.”

There’s a surprising hint of bitterness to Lord Snow’s last words that startles Sam from cutting up his lamb. Lord Snow’s eyes are like slivers of steel, watching Sam intently. Sam has the strange sensation that he’s rather like the lamb on his plate - pursued by a predator. His collar suddenly feels several sizes too small, and he adjusts his position on his chair.

“That’s a blessing then. As is your garden.”

“Yes,” Lord Snow says, slowly, contemplatively, “I’m quite proud of it.”

“I’ve never seen roses that colour before, Lord Snow. Not even in my books - well, in one of my books, but... “

“You rely on your books a lot then?”

This time it’s Sam to flush pink. “I, um, yes - “

“Good. I have a library I’ll show you one day. Now, your duties.” Lord Snow smiles briefly, and then it fades into nothing as he begins to speak about what he expects Sam to do every day, in detail.

They eat their meal, and depart for their separate bedrooms. Lord Snow shakes Sam’s hand, firm and warm. Sam flushes all over, long after Lord Snow has taken a detour to the study, leaving Sam to go to bed alone. To his own bed on his own, Sam mentally adds, a touch regretfully.

On his way upstairs, Sam looks at the painting - of the blue roses of Winterfell growing in a painting of Winterfell itself. He dresses for bed, and spends an unproductive fifteen minutes trying to read before he finally gives in.

He touches his hardening cock to the memory of Lord Snow’s eyes and his plush mouth, and the shape of his body and the heat he felt at his touch, and comes quickly. He lets his come settle on his skin, to dry, and avoid any embarrassment for Gilly.

Outside, through the open window, Sam can see the moon and smell the sweet scent of roses from  the garden. For a moment, he thinks he smells something else - something darker and deeper - but then he’s tumbling into sleep and he’s gone.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Gilly share a conversation, Lord Snow's background is explored a touch more, and Sam meets an old... friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been a little bit longer waiting, but I'm loving writing this, and hopefully you're enjoying writing it too. :)

The morning afterwards, Sam settles down to his first full day of work and life at Snow Manor. The sun is low and warm, and the study has its windows open to allow a cool breeze as refreshing as a dip in the lake, to drift in and salve Sam’s overheated soul.

Lord Snow has left a note at the desk where Sam will work, asking him to look over the month’s invoices for Lord Snow’s expenditures. He asks that Sam create totals for the groups Lord Snow has mentioned (amenities, maintenance costs to the manor, and so forth…), and then begin dictating letters of reply to the parties in question.

It’s all simple enough work, really, and Sam spends the next few hours engrossed in the slow, methodical way of putting pen to paper, the way he quickly tots up the costs and marks them down for future reference, and the relaxing practice of writing it all down. It might not be fighting or labour, but Sam likes it. Even if he is too soft by far.

At some hour in the early afternoon, Gilly enters with a light knock, and a tray of lunch which she lays on the table beside Sam’s papers. The smell of freshly sliced meat and freshly baked bread, and the lump of cheese, are all ambrosia to Sam’s senses. He peels his eyeglasses away and places them down on the desk.

“Gilly, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, I was going to anyway, but Lord Snow insisted. He also told me to tell you that he hopes you’re finding your work well.” Gilly says, with a small, secretive smile she hides by heading for the door. She leaves him to his lunch, which Sam rapidly and appreciatively devours.

He finishes the work an hour or so before sunset, and takes a moment to breathe in the honeysuckle as he stands by the open window. The breeze is cool on his skin. Sam feels happy. Content even.

That night, he eats alone. Lord Snow doesn’t join him for his evening meal, but makes sure that Gilly is as friendly and attentive as ever. He persuades Gilly to bring her own meal to the dining table, so he doesn’t eat alone, and she finally agrees, sipping at her hearty broth.

_Strange_ , Sam thinks. He’s always resented his siblings at the dining table, talking and shouting and fighting and trying to steal off each others’ plates, but somehow he almost misses them. The silence is deafening.

“How long have you worked for Lord Snow?” Sam asks. He sips at the broth in front of him, the pieces of chicken and bread off to one side for later.

“A couple of years.” Gilly says. “I… helped him during a time of crisis and he repaid the favour by allowing me to work here.”

“Doesn’t seem like such a favour. Working for someone.”

Gilly’s cheeks are flushed when she looks up from her meal. “No one in my family’s ever even stepped inside a noble house like this before. None of ‘em are left now.”

It’s Sam turn to flush with apology and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - “

Gilly waves him off. It’s a familiar gesture, as if they’ve known each other years. “It’s fine, Master Tarly. Happened a long time ago now.”

“Please, call me Sam.”

Gilly bows her head for a moment. “Only when Lord Snow isn’t around. He… insisted I show you all levels of respect.”

“Are you scared of him?”

“No.” Gilly says, a moment later. “I’m scared of what’ll happen when - “ She breaks off then, to sip at her own broth, as if the bottom of the bowl is the most interesting thing.

“What is it, Gilly?”

“Lord Snow… he lives on his own for a reason. Yeah? He likes me, so I’m alright, but… he’s been running. For a long time.”

“From what?”

“You’ve seen the painting, sir - Sam?”

Sam nods. _Eyes as blue as Winterfell roses._

“He lived in Winterfell as a child. He… God forgive me if he knows I’ve told you this, sir. He grew up in Winterfell. A relative of Lord Eddard.”

Sam feels his eyes widen. The murders of the Starks are the stuff of nightmares. He knows of mothers in the village who still use the Starks as the basis for boogeymen for their children.

_Don’t stay out past dark or the Others will get you. Just like they did Lord Eddard and the Starks. They worshipped the heathen gods in the North and look what happened to them._

“I thought they all died.”

Gilly nods. “So did I. Lord Snow left them shortly before, to make his way to Castle Black. However, once he heard of Winterfell falling, he turned and ran. Ran so far as if he’d died with them as well. They never found the bodies of the children. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were found in the grounds once they’d cleared out the rubble.”

Silence as thick as velvet falls across them. Sam’s heart is aching. He thinks of Lord Snow, with his pale face and small smile, alone and his family and home gone, wandering the world. He wants to - gods, he doesn't know.

_Gods_ , Sam thought. _No wonder he doesn’t care for people._

Gilly’s eyes moved to the timepiece on the carved oak cabinet in the dining table, and rises. “I must go. Lord Snow…”

Sam nods, stands to bow to her exit. “Of course. Thank you. I, uh… if you would like to eat again tomorrow night, I would be honoured.”

“I imagine that Lord Snow will have that honour tomorrow night, Mr Tarly, but thank you.” Gilly’s smile is warm and genuine as she leaves, and Sam sits back down to his meal.

That night, a storm is blazing in the skies. Sam stirs for a while, drifting in between dreams of Lord Snow’s eyes and his smile, and of summer. The spring air is sweet, even in the storm; the windows blow open soon enough.

Sam pads over in his bare feet, across the cold wooden floors, to close it again. The rain is cooling on his face and Sam waits for a moment before he closes the windows, to savour the moment.

_ I might be a useless craven sold to a lord, rather than working hard, but at least, for a bit, I'm happy. _

He closes them, then turns around, moonlight illuminating the room behind them.

There’s a wolf stood behind him, paws on the deerskin rug in front of his bed.

The wolf is enormous, bigger than the ones Sam had seen his brother and his friends bring back from hunting trips with Sam’s father. This wolf is snow white, with a tail the length of Sam’s arm. When the wolf raises its head, the eyes are as red as blood.

For a moment, Sam is terrified. He’s going to die. He might not have had much of a life, not really lived yet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to live at all.

Then, queerly, he feels the strong tug of recognition. _By all the gods old and new… he knows this beast._

The wolf continues to look at Sam. Not attacking, not pouncing. Tail wagging a touch, as soft as a feather in a breeze.

Sam feels the name rise in his throat, braver than he feels, even as the worry subsides a little. Sam isn’t brave. He _isn’t_. But right now, he’s not a craven, for once.

“Ghost? Is that you?”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost leads Sam to a new discovery...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys - sorry that this has taken me forever and a day to finish and upload, but real life got in the way. I should, hopefully, have the next few installments lined up over the next few months. Enjoy!

Ghost wags his tail a little. It’s very disconcerting.

Sam bends down, tilting his hand appropriately, and Ghost nuzzles into Sam’s hand. Sam scratches at the fur on Ghost’s head, and examines him. Ghost looks well fed, strong, his tail thumping happily against the nearby table. He looks much better than Sam last saw him - hunting for scraps in the forest near where Sam lived, Sam careful to keep Ghost away as much as possible, lest his brothers or his father spot him and hunt the wolf down.

Ghost butts into Sam’s hand a little stronger, nudging for affection and receiving it.

Then, after a moment, Ghost moves away, moving as if to stand by the door. Waiting for Sam.

“I don’t think I can let you - this isn’t - “ Ghost just looks at Sam, and almost as if he thinks it himself, the thought Just open the door, Sam trills through his head.

When Sam does open the door, fumbling for his eyeglasses on the side, Ghost pads out onto the corridor, and then waits for Sam, snorting a little impatiently.

“Alright, alright.” Sam grumbles, good-naturedly. He tugs on his threadbare nightgown, suitable on for emergencies, and pads out onto the corridor, following Ghost who immediately begins moving towards the west wing of the manor, somewhere Sam hasn’t been. It’s not that he’s been expressly forbidden - he just hasn’t not been. Sam and Lord Snow have been having a perfectly pleasant relationship - working relationship, Sam corrects, pushing away the memories of grey eyes and blue eyes and full pink lips - and he doesn’t want to ruin it for the sake of letting his curious nature best him.

His curious nature, however, drives his feet forward, as it has been wont to do for years now, and Sam is soon following Ghost down a series of winding hallways, lit only by the light of the moon, towards a set of double doors, oak and ornate, and covered in a thick layer of dust on the handles.

Ghost noses at Sam’s calf and looks towards the doors.

“There can’t be anything useful in there. Can there?” Sam looks down at Ghost, who is sitting patiently.

Sam pushes the door, solid oak carved with the faces of the Old Gods in their weirwood trees, and it creaks open. Warm light spills out from inside, and, impossible to turn away, Sam opens the door to step inside.

It’s a library.

More appropriately, it’s the biggest library that Sam has _ever_ seen.

There are two levels, small staircases linking the ground floor shelves and the balcony floor, carved wooden railings all around. There must be thousands of books here, a dizzying amount of tomes, the likes of which Sam hasn’t even dreamt of. He knows the Citadel, the home of the maesters, has more than even this collection, but the scent of books in his nose and the flickering of the dozen or so candles set up around the library, is intoxicating.

Sam’s fingers have a mind of their own, flitting from tome to tome - a leatherbound volume of the _Scientifica Essosum_ , several scrolls of the _Maester’s Mage_ , even a copy of _The Old Gods and the New_ , which Sam had thought long since faded into obscurity.

“I’m glad to see you like it.”

Sam spins at the voice behind him, losing his balance, but before he can crash to the ground, strong hands are hauling him in close.

Lord Snow.

He looks even more haunting and handsome by proximity and candlelight. Skin as pale as fresh snow, lips like roses. Lord Snow’s robe, dark as smoke, is open at the throat, so Sam can see the expanse of creamy skin and the hint of solid muscles beneath; Sam averts his gaze before he can embarrass himself further under the cool grey of Jon’s eyes. Sam moves to step away, and Jon releases his hands from Sam's arms a moment later, still staring at Sam.

Sam remembers one of the old tales, of a princess poisoned into slumber, with lips as red as rubies, who was only awoken by true love’s kiss by a true knight.

 _I’m hardly a knight_ , Sam thought, helplessly. _I’m as craven as they come._

“I’m - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to - I was just - “ Sam indicates behind him, and then finds that Ghost has gone, leaving nothing behind but damp footprints near where Lord Snow must have come in.

“It’s fine. I…” Lord Snow trails off. “I should have shown you earlier. I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.”

“How about ‘I’ve got the best library in Westeros, do you want to see it?’. That usually works.” Sam beams, because Lord Snow has a slight flush in his cheeks, and at Sam’s words, he actually smiles back at Sam.

“How did you find all these?”

“I didn’t. I inherited them.”

“From your family?” Sam winces. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - “

“It’s fine, Sam. The former lord here passed away while I… sheltered here under his sanctuary. I presume you are aware of my past?”

Sam nodded, his throat tight.

“Good. Then you know that I ran, a long time ago, and Lord Mormont protected me. When he passed a couple of years ago, he left me everything in his will. Snow’s a common enough name for a bastard in these parts, and it was just assumed that I was his bastard son, only heir, and never legitimised.”

“And the books?”

Jon smiled wryly. “Always the books, Samwell. Lord Mormont salvaged the books from across the land. Every trashed sept, every broken castle, he collected them, in case of any future calamities.”

“It’s… it’s incredible.”

“It’s yours. For as long as you’re here.”

Sam looks back in bewilderment at Lord Snow. “Are you… serious, m’lord?”

“I am. And, please, it’s Jon. The idea of you calling me Lord Snow in every sentence is terrifying.”

Sam actually laughs at that. “Very well, Jon. Thank you.”

“Might I escort you back to your rooms?”

“Well, I was hoping…” Sam looks back longingly at the rows of books, and Jon chuckles.

“Very well. Do try and get some sleep tonight, Sam.”

Jon departs with a curt nod and a smile, closing the heavy double doors behind him carefully. Sam turns back around, his mind whirling, until his eyes settle upon The Old Gods and the New. He carefully extricates it from the shelf, places it on the nearest reading desk with a candle, and settles down to read.

 

* * *

 

It’s morning when Sam looks up from the books spread across his desk, to find Gilly stood there, gazing at him. He can smell with a sudden surge in his stomach, the smell of freshly cooked salted bacon and can see slices of bread and butter on the plate in Gilly’s hands. He’s hungry, but his own appetites have taken a backseat, to searching and exploring, to finding out everything he can.

“Is it morning already?”

“It’s been morning for several hours, m’lo - Sam.” Gilly says, a bashful smile flitting on her features.

“Good heavens. Already?” Sam sets down the book, marking his place with a scrap of paper he’d been jotting notations down onto. “Thank you for the breakfast, Gilly.”

“Lord Snow has requested that you commence work later this afternoon. He feels that you might want to sleep and be ready full refreshed for the work ahead.”

Sam blinks, eyes on the bacon in front of him, and then back at Gilly. “That’s very considerate of him, but - “

“He insists. I think he himself did not sleep much last night. He’s taken breakfast in his room, and is going to run errands later in the morning, so you are more than welcome to return to bed.” Gilly's half-smile is all knowing and Sam agrees to it silently.

“Thank you, Gilly. I will. After I’ve had your no doubt delicious breakfast, of course.” Gilly blushes, demurs, and departs.

The breakfast is good - hot and delicious and hearty, with the unrelated side effect of making Sam feel so full and sated that he almost drifts off to sleep at the desk. He collects the books neatly on the desk, stores the notes, and returns to his room, making sure to remember the way back to the library.

He’s saddened to find to Ghost not in the room when he returns, but the wolf is wild and smart - he’ll return when he’s ready. Sam draws the curtains closed so as to block out the sunlight, and curls back up in bed to sleep.

The dream he has is peculiar, even by his standards.

Sam walks through the ruins of a castle, smoldering rock beneath his feet, the sky ash grey. He can hear bell tolls - two, then five more. There should be six, he thinks, then the rocks turn to dust, and he’s in the snowdrift outside the castle.

The snow is thick and knee deep and Sam sees the remains of banners in the snow, grey and pink and bloody. He can hear the snarl of a wolf behind him, and turns, the snow melting into dead grass, as the wolf leaps towards him.

The wolf has eyes as blue as Wintefell roses, and then as grey as cool steel in the blink of an eye, and before the wolf hits Sam, Sam swears he can see a man on the battlements, eyes as red as rubies, and watching him, as if he’s been watching him for _years_.

Then he wakes.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new connection is forged, one that connects the violent past to the uncertain future...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter guys, but this hopefully sets some things up for the rest of the work. Hope you enjoy...

****Lord Snow - Jon, he insists - makes a joke one evening at Sam having moved into the library.

They’re sat over dinner several days later. The sun has set, iridescent against the windows of the dining hall, and Sam is babbling about the research he’s been working on, once he’d balanced Jon’s accounts for the month. The basis of the myths of snarks, the stories of wildfire battles back when Baelor the Blessed was ruler; everything he could think of.

“I should ask Gilly to move your bed into the alcove beside the comedies.” Jon says, and he smiles. Sam beams back, a little shy, because Jon is handsome and surprisingly sweet, and Sam needs to remind himself that he is Jon’s servant; an employee brought in due to his father.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be spending so much time there.”

“It’s fine. Like I’ve already said, it’s good to see Mormont’s books getting some love and attention. Has your father always encouraged your skills?”

Sam snorts before he can stop himself. “Hardly, m’lord -- I mean, Jon. He would rather I were a soldier like my brothers. He thinks my ‘skills’ weaknesses.”

“Then he’s a fool.”

Sam looks up sharply, shocked, but Jon meets his stare with a level look. “I’m not going to lie to you, Sam. From the looks of it, you’re not a huge fan of your father yourself.”

He lowers his head in response. “He fed and clothed me and gave me a roof over my head for all my life.”

“And then traded you to me for a business deal.”

“So I’m a commodity.”

Jon shrugged. “To him, maybe. Like you said, he’s a man who values fighters. Vassal of a strong house, he needs strong soldiers in his family. You don’t fit his narrow mould.”

Sam exhales a shaky breath. He doesn’t speak about this to anyone, doesn’t mention the long, dark nights making sure if he cried, that he made it silent. Earning the ire of his brothers and his father would enflame the situation. _I don’t need more reasons for them to turn their claws on me._

Sam’s mind floated, momentarily, to the dream - the man with the red eyes and the wolf with the blue eyes. He had slept fitfully after that, the memory of the man, his features hidden in shadow, etched in Sam’s brain.

“And when you deem my work complete, you’ll release me back to him. He might realise I might be of some use.”

“Unless - unless you would like a permanent position here.” Jon says quietly. He looks quiet and contemplative, pushing the remains of his beef around his plate.

“That’s -- that’s very kind of you, but -- “

“There’s nothing kind about it, Sam.” In the candlelight, Jon’s eyes no longer look grey. They look like they’ve been kissed by fire. “You’re better than you think you are. I’d be honoured to have you here.”

Sam doesn’t know what to do, what to feel, what to think. He wants to run, to escape, to kiss Jon so hard that their mouths ache. He thinks about Ghost.

“I would… can I have some time? To think about it?”

Jon nods, eagerly. “Of course. All the time you need. Either way, I’m happy to have you here.”

Later that night, Sam pads into the library, a thick blanket from the foot of his bed wrapped around his shoulders to fight the chill. His brain has been bouncing around the opportunity and he can’t sleep.

It shows to the level of Sam’s tiredness that he’s not surprised when Ghost nudges the door to the library, padding himself across the stone floor to where Sam is sat by the smoldering fire. Ghost is wet and snuffles when he rests his head on Sam’s lap.

“You’re soaked.” Sam moves his lap a little, and Ghost settles companionably on Sam’s feet, stretching his body across the rug in front of the glowing hearth.

He feels… not at home, here, but. Settled. That’s probably the closest word he has for it. He doesn’t feel scared anymore. He doesn’t feel the hot, horrible wildfire of panic in his stomach whenever a door opens or when he hears heavy footsteps on the corridor outside or in the kitchen. The weeks he’s been here have been restorative, clearing, even as he’s found himself stepping further into a mystery he can’t quite put his finger on yet.

It’s then that Sam feels the wetness on Ghost’s side and finds that it’s blood.

“Oh my God,” Sam sinks to his knees, panic driving a stake into his heart as Ghost blinks his blood red eyes at Sam. Ghost whines a little, but doesn’t struggle or wince.

“What happened to you? Oh, boy, what - “ Sam’s mind bursts between thoughts - _have to get Jon, have to get Gilly, have to save Ghost, oh God_ \- right before Ghost… begins to shift beneath Sam’s hands.

The metamorphosis is almost unremarkable in a way - the body twists and elongates, losing the fur and becoming slim and pale and scant with hair. The whine becomes an entirely human gasp of pain.

Right before the eyes fade to steel grey, they’re bright blue. As blue as Wintefell roses.

“Sam,” Jon gasps, and Sam can’t… breathe. Can’t move. Jon’s head rests on Sam’s lap, and Sam’s hand is still resting on Jon’s side, next to the vicious wound that leaks dark red blood. He’s naked, and Sam would normally pay more attention to that but his brain is… taking a lot in.

_The red eyes. The man. The blue eyes. The wolf. Or was it the other way around?_

“Who… what did this to you?” Sam whispers.

When he speaks, Jon’s voice is ragged and rough, halfway between panic and horror. His hand clutches at the back of Sam’s neck like an anchor. “The Boltons. They’re back. They’re the ones who killed my family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dun! I knew I wanted this double-whammy to be the midpoint cliffhanger, and the way that Jon and Sam have been linked for a while now. The second half of the fic builds on this, explores Jon and Sam's relationship closely, and builds the mythology up. Hope you guys like it!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a shocking night, Sam finally learns the truth about Jon and about the town's newcomers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're officially over the halfway mark! Now we're getting into the juicy stuff - the backstory, the growing emotions... thanks for those of you have left wonderful comments about the series and I hope these next few instalments satisfy you.

****Sam patches Jon up the best he can. It’s not good by any means, and Gilly screams for a second when she comes across Jon and Sam in the kitchen, Sam scouring his brain for what to do to sterilise and treat a wound, while Jon sits, a thick fur throw wrapped around him for modesty. Fortunately Gilly is much more proficient and Sam keeps Jon still under his hands as Gilly uses her needle and thread to knit the wound shut.

When she’s done, Gilly heads into the kitchen to clean the towels, and Sam’s hands still rest on Jon’s wound, as if he can knit it back together to smooth, pale, unblemished skin through his will. Jon’s hand rests on Sam’s.

“You need a poultice.” Sam says.

“Sam, I - “ Jon begins to say, words bubbling out from his throat, hoarse and rough as sandpaper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - “

“I, um… I’ll go. I can be back within an hour. I have enough money.”

Sam rises, but Jon’s grips his hand tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I’ll come back.” Sam says, and even as he moves away from Jon, feeling his wildfire gaze on the back of his neck as he leaves, he knows that it’s true.

 

* * *

 

It’s been weeks since he was last in town. He can’t say he misses it much - he’d forgotten quite how busy it all was. The sights, the smells, the sounds. It’s a little overwhelming.

Sam heads to the apothecary where Maester Aemon, a blind and elderly gentleman, assisted by his assistants Pyp and Grenn, moves with slow speed but acute insight. He asks for a poultice for covering a wound and says it is for Gilly, for an injury sustained in the kitchen.

“Must be a hell of a wound.” Grenn says, reaching up for the murky glass jars that Maester Aemon can’t reach.

“It is.” Sam says. His mind whirls with the truth - blue eyes and red eyes and the shift, of wolf into man, and of Ghost becoming this… he can’t even say stranger. Jon has become much more than a stranger, an employer even. He’s become Sam’s friend, and Sam needs a little time to adjust his view.

On his way out, Maester Aemon dresses a small linen handkerchief, heavy with the weight of something inside its neatly folded parcel. “For your trouble.” The maester says, before retreating inside his shop. Sam doesn’t open the package.

Instead he heads to the bakery, for a loaf of bread and a reason to stretch his legs. In the queue, his mind moves from Jon, to the conversation behind him.

“They’ll just be scourging again - tearing up the houses, raping the young girls. Bolton’s men…”

“Shush!” The other woman, face crinkled with age, whispers. “They can be anywhere and hear you, and then you’ll be flayed before you can say boo.”

“I’d rather take my chances with the wolves than with Bolton’s men.”

“Wolves?”

The first woman leans in. “Five wolves according to my Wallace. Moving through the forest a couple miles north of here. Preying on local wildlife, or local children if the rumours to be believed. Most as like it’s a couple of wild dogs.”

Sam turns his attention back to the baker, gets the bread and a sweet pastry or two for Gilly, and it’s only when he’s halfway back to Jon’s castle, that Sam realises that he never even considered going back home for a visit.

Gilly greets him at the back door and helps with his purchases. “Here.” Sam says, unwrapping the sweet honey pastry for Gilly. “Just something to say thank you.”

She blushes and smiles, all coltish grace. “You didn’t need to - “

“You helped me with Jon. This is the least I can do for you.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Gilly says. “He’s waiting for you in his room when you’re ready.”

“Alright. I’ll get the poultice ready.”

When Sam enters Jon’s room, Jon looks up from his half-dozing state. “You came back.” He smiles weakly. The wound in his side has stopped bleeding as profusely; still, the wound is mottled with a crust of blood the colour of spoiled meat against the pale cream of his skin.

“Of course I did. I made you a promise.”

Jon relaxes against the collection of pillows propped up against his back. “Thank you. I know that… that we have a lot to talk about.”

“We do.” Sam takes the seat beside Jon’s bed and unwraps the jar of poultice mixture. “But first, I need to make sure your injury heals right.”

Sam applies the poultice - thick and pungent-smelling and the colour of new spring leaves - and spreads it carefully along Jon’s pale, smooth skin. He’s imagined a couple of times getting his hands on the firm muscles he’s spotted here, but Sam has nothing but concern in his touch.

“If it works as well as it stinks, I’ll be better than before.” Jon jokes, and Sam chuckles a little.

“I heard in the town. About Lord Bolton and his men.”

Jon freezes under his touch. When he speaks a moment later, it’s low. “They were hunting last night in the woods north of here. I… I wanted to tear out their throats for what they did.”

“They killed your family.” Sam says. He remembers the story of the Starks, of Gilly’s tale, of a boy who would never stop running.

“They were the only family I ever had, Sam. Winterfell was home. The Boltons wanted control, so they took it.”

Sam entwines his fingers with Jon’s. “I’m so sorry.”

“When I knew that I could… change, like my family, I ran as far as I could. Then Lord Mormont found me, shivering and nearly dying. He saved my life as a kindness to my father.”

“And… and Ghost?”

Jon bows his head. “I’m sorry for the… the lie. You were the only one who ever fed me, who cared enough to make sure I was alive.”

“It killed me sending you away.” Sam whispers, and he’s shocked to find tears in the corner of his eyes. “For the longest time, you were my only friend. I told you everything.”

“I know.” Jon leans forward, grasping Sam’s hand desperately. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

And whether it’s Sam’s mind reeling and trying to grasp hold of something solid and firm, or whether it’s because he’s thinking about it ever since he first stepped into the manor, Sam doesn’t know; what he does know, however, is that he lower his head, curves his free hand around Jon’s blessedly cool cheek, thinks _be brave_ and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a kiss! These two have taken so long. The next chapters are going to be dealing with their relationship, the Boltons, and what that could mean for Lord Snow...


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam recovers. Jon recovers. Jon opens up about why Ramsay has a target on his back...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. This chapter was a lot of fun to write and it sets up a lot of stuff to come - the aftermath of the Jon/Sam kiss, the coming conflict between the Bolton men and Jon, and other little bits and pieces. I hope you enjoy.

Jon doesn’t respond for the first moment of the kiss, and Sam’s mind ripples with anxiety. _I had to ruin the one good thing in my life_ , he thinks blindly, wildly -

\- right before Jon pushes himself up on his elbow and kisses Sam back. The sheets pool around Jon’s waist, as Jon anchors Sam towards him, hands curving around Sam’s neck and his waist.

It’s flame-hot, and even though Jon’s lips are cool and sweet and plush, he feels as radiant as a furnace. Sam feels dizzy, his head swimming, and then Jon leans back and his mind feels clear and fresh as a spring morning.

“Goodness.” Sam says. “I wasn’t, uh, expecting - “

“I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

“Given that you spent some of those years as a… well, a wolf, I’m less inclined to be favourable towards that statement.”

Jon winces a little under his rueful grin, and Sam smiles because his life has become that of a fairytale, of a fable, and he feels unprepared. Out of place. The missing piece that doesn’t fit right. Being with Jon, however, seems to make sense. No confusion, no worry; just sweet, clear clarity.

“I will apologise for that, you know.”

“Nothing to apologise for. You… you were running. From Ramsay.”

Jon nods and rests his head against Sam’s shoulder. “He… he wanted to marry his way into the family. I was only a bastard son, no legitimacy issues to worry about. He and his father tried brokering a marriage with my father to Sansa. She refused.”

“And then?”

Jon takes in a rattling, shuddering breath. “He rallied some of the smaller Northern houses - the Karstarks mainly - and assaulted home. They took Winterfell.”

“But you weren’t there.”

“No. I’d left to join the Night’s Watch. Be of some use to my family. To the world. Then when I heard I ran. All that… all that was left of the castle was smoking rubble. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were found in the godswood.”

Sam knew a bit about the northern religions - of the old gods who lived in the white weirwood trees, their eyes as red as blood - and cupped the back of Jon’s head, stroking the overgrown hair there.

“Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. All of them gone.”

Sam thinks of what it would be like to lose Dickon or Talla; his brother thinks nothing of him, but his sister was always kind to him, the same as his mother, and to love them both would be a bane to his heart. He can see the loneliness etched in Jon; it aches in Sam’s being.

“So what can we do?” Sam asks.

“Do?”

"Ramsay, the Bolton army. They’re in the village for a reason, I heard people talking.”

“I know. I know.” Jon says. “I was… I liked living here.”

“You can’t go!” Sam blurts out, his face reddening as Jon raises his head from Sam’s shoulder. “This is - I mean - “

“Run or you die. That’s what you learn as a wolf, Sam. Anything else is suicide.”

“No. There’s always a way.” Sam tilts Jon’s head up. “Give me time to figure something out. Okay? Don’t - don’t go. Not yet. Let me think.”

“Okay.” Jon says with a soft smile tugging at his lips. “For you.” He kisses Sam to seal the deal.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes by slowly. Jon sleeps fitfully for hours at a time, and with Gilly’s help, Sam checks the wound underneath the remains of the pungent poultice. The wound is healing well, quicker and cleaner than a normal human wound might do.

When Jon sleeps, Sam helps Gilly clean up from the night before, the blood spattered on the wooden floor, before he sends her to sleep in her bed. He spends the rest of the day in the library, pouring over texts and tomes, checking everything from the old mythologies to modern genealogy records.

Jon finds him towards dusk. He’s wrapped up in a loose shirt and warm blankets and makes to stand behind Sam who removes his eyeglasses when he hears the footsteps.

“You shouldn’t be moving up and about.”

“I feel much better.” Jon crouches a little, his head resting on Sam’s shoulder so he can see the books Sam’s been reading. A sheaf of parchment rests at Sam’s elbow, the ink drying. “What’s all this?”

“My mind’s pretty much been racing since we, um… well, since. So, I decided to channel it into reading up into you, and the Boltons and everything we can do.”

“Are you saying I make you mindless?” Jon asks, question tinted with a teasing smirk Sam can feel if not see. Jon is a wall of heat at his back, and Sam has to tamp down on the flush of arousal curling around his body.

“I looked into werewolves. Your history, your mythology. Northern by nature and considered folklore except for certain houses in the North. I’m not sure if the rumour of shifting under the full moon is true or not - “

“Not true. We can shift when we need to, usually once you reach adulthood.”

Sam nods. “That makes a lot of sense. The body shifting and changing at will takes a lot of self control. Combined with the changes that take place at that age…”

Jon leans over and examines one of the pages; the image of a monstrous thing, more beast than wolf or man. Legs like spindly branches, extending into a muscular torso, and then, finally, a snarling head, teeth bared and enlarged jaws opened in attack. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Either a very bad interpretation of a direwolf, or something called a _hukka_. A wolf-beast, but an abomination. Not you, obviously.”

“‘Not an abomination.’ Is this how you court all your lovers, Sam?” Jon asks. Sam flushes scarlet, stammering.

“I was going to - oh, never mind.”

“What?” Jon presses a kiss to Sam’s shoulder blade. “You can ask me anything you know.”

“I - okay, if… i’ve seen your eyes. They changed colour. Is that…?”

Jon laughs and pulls Sam’s chair out a little, so that he can pull Sam to his feet, turning Sam towards him.

“That is a wolf thing.” Jon chuckles, amused, and Sam blushes. “Generally our eyes are blue when we shift. Sometimes red when we’re angry” Jon blinks at Sam, and his cool grey eyes turn cerulean for a long moment.

“I thought so.”

They rest for a moment in silence. Sam thinks of Jon’s eyes, grey as steel, as blue as Winterfell roses. “They… your eyes reminded me of the roses. At Winterfell.”

“The painting.”

Sam nodded. “I thought it was some trick of the light, or some illusion or something like it.” He smiled. “Perhaps I was just blinded by your beauty.”

Jon pulls Sam in closer and smirks wolfishly. “Blinded, eh?”

The kiss is warm and sweet, and Sam wants nothing more but to stay here forever, in Jon’s arms and the pool of dusk sunlight.

“Why is Ramsay Bolton coming for you?” Sam asks, a moment later. Jon sighs.

“Inheritancy laws. I was… acknowledged by my father, Lord Eddard. With him and my brothers and sisters gone, I’m all that’s left. The last one who Winterfell belongs to.”

“So he’s going to what? Kill you?”

“Maybe. If he doesn’t want half of the Northern houses coming down to unite and slaughter him, he’ll force me to abdicate the rights to Winterfell and pass them over to House Bolton.”

“And with them in place, the Northern houses will unite behind him. A secure claim and the authority to rule the North with an iron fist.” Sam says.

“Exactly.”

“He might just kill you and claim you signed it anyway.”

Jon shakes his head. “He’d need witnesses from all the Houses, loyal or not, to confirm it, as I signed. Then he’d kill me. Or send me to the Wall.”

“So that’s why you ran.”

“No. But it’s why I kept running. He knows what I look like when I change.”

Sam’s mind whirls to two nights ago, Ghost with his red eyes and gleaming white fur, fresh from the forest.

“Then why did you change? Why didn’t you stay - “

“Human? I wanted to run, to stretch under the moonlight.” Jon looks up at him through eyelashes that are far too bashful. “I wanted to… be open with you. Be honest with you. Even if I had to have a tail to do it.”

Sam’s laugh bubbles out of him and he leans in to kiss the uncertainty off of Jon’s face.

"Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” Sam moves to wrap an arm around Jon’s waist, to help him stay upright.

Jon grins. “Why Mr Tarly. I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, there'll be plenty of romance and a bit of plot - like how I do most of my other fics! The story has three more chapters to go and I can't wait to see where it's going to end up. Hope you enjoy the ride too...


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing leads to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters to go, and Jon and Sam finally help break that tension between them. A little bit smutty; that's all I promise... hope you guys like!

****Jon’s bedroom is cool and quiet when Sam closes the door behind he and Jon.

Sam knows that Gilly is sleeping soundly, that the home is locked up and secure. Right now, there are no Boltons at their doors, or histories breaking through the calm silence.

He wants to let go, just for once. To quiet his whirling mind and just feel.

“It’s alright.” Jon says. He’s eschewed the blanket in lieu of sitting on the bed, in the pool of fresh clean sheets, naked and pale and honest. “I’ve not - I’ve not done anything like this before either. We’ll just do whatever feels right. Talk to each other.”

“And if I just want to sleep?”

“Then we sleep. I think I snore, though. Fair warning.”

Sam laughs quietly, then sits down on the bed beside Jon. His knuckles brush against Jon’s, and his eyes can’t help but wander. Acres of skin as pale of moonlight. Grey eyes.

“You can take your… well, anything off, really. If you like.”

Sam chuckles. “I don’t think I’m as good to look at.”

“I disagree. Entirely.” Jon’s eyes are now intensely blue, and it’s the spark of something, something terrifying and welcoming and warm that gives Sam the push to lean into Jon’s mouth to kiss him.

They kiss for what seems like a long time, and then Jon is slowly, deliberately, unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, and Sam is so far gone that he doesn’t mind, that he shrugs out of his shirt and presses himself to Jon, skin flush to skin. He feels warm all over. A moment later, Jon’s hand finds its way from Sam’s hip, past the waistband of his trousers, and onto his stiffening cock.

Sam groans and blushes and Jon stops him with a kiss, full of heat and tongue, and his hand strokes Sam’s cock and Sam’s skin is on fire, his nerves alight with desire and pleasure, so much better than his own hand. "That - that feels - " Sam chokes out.

Sam’s hand moves through the pile of blankets, touching Jon’s cock with is smooth and firm and Jon cries out with a broken cry, and when he meets Sam’s eyes, they’re scarlet. “Sam.” There’s no malice to his voice, no rage; instead the heat there is territorial… lust.

They kiss again, their hands moving furtively, and Sam comes with a gasp. Jon comes a moment later, and then they collapse into each other, breathing heavy. Sam watches as the red fades from Jon’s eyes, even as Jon places a heavy arm around Sam’s shoulders.

“I’ve… that was…”

“Good?” Jon asks, grinning.

“I could stand to do it again. To make sure I like it.” Sam says, and Jon kisses Sam’s forehead. He wraps them up in the bedsheets and before Sam can say anything else - can ask about what Jon’s going to do next, about his family, about anything - Jon’s asleep and after a moment, Sam joins him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam dreams.

The nightmare is like his dream from nights ago  - the man with red eyes, the fire, the crumbling castle. _Five bells. There should be six._

Except now, as Sam walks through the snow and the blood and the fire and the rubble, the dream is different. He can feel the icy chill on his back. He hates seeing blood on snow.

He sees banners, streaked with blood, rise high against the crimson sky. He can see the stars. Sam feels the cold on his back, and it takes him a moment to see the man leading the banners. His mouth is split open in a monster’s maw, and he manages one word, _Mine_ , before he pounces.

Sam wakes up with a start, bleary, and with Jon’s arm around him, warm and solid.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, voice sleep-heavy.

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.” He remembers his dream and he remembers the handkerchief Maester Aemon gave to him and he wonders and drifts back into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Sam wakes up to an empty bed, just after sunset. He hears the soft clattering around in the kitchen and down the hall, so he stretches out in bed and feels around in his trousers for the handkerchief Maester Aemon gave him.

He opens up the handkerchief and a vial spills out from inside, pale green liquid sloshing inside a clear crystal phial. Sam removes the crystal stopper and recoils from the scent, which smells of rotting meat and pungent fish and a sharp undercurrent of mint that brings everything together.

“What’s that?” Jon asks, from the doorway. He’s half-dressed, carrying two glasses of Arbor gold, and sits down beside Sam after offering him a glass.

“Something Maester Aemon gave me. For my trouble, he said.”

Jon recoils at the smell. “It stinks like nothing I’ve smelt before.” Sam replaces the stopper and Jon kisses him gratefully.

“Now what?”

“Round two?”

“No, I meant… we need to think. The Boltons.”

“I know.” Jon leans back against the pillows, his brow tensed. “I need to move. If they’ve tracked me down then…”

“We have options. We can secure your position, we can - “

“The Stark family has no legitimacy anymore. No support. I’m one man, Sam.”

“Not… not if you don’t want.” Sam threaded his fingers through Jon’s.

Jon smiled. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“And if I want to?”

“I already took you from your family for this long, Sam. I can’t… I mean, you’re free of course to go back to them if you want.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “This is… this is the first place that’s felt like home in a long time.”

“Sam,” Jon says, turning to meet his gaze full-on, “I just - “

It’s then that the first window _shatters_ and explodes in a plume of flame in the foyer. Jon and Sam scramble to their feet, just as Gilly burst open the door to their room. She iss terrified, her eyes wide.

“Gilly what - ?” Sam begins to ask, but then he sees the banners through the high windows in the hall. Bright pink cloth, a flayed man stretched out across it. Sam’s heart sinks and he feels nauseated.

“The Boltons. They’re here. They’re here for you.” Gilly says, the light behind her aglow with fire and the roars of men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-DUN! The action properly kicks off in the next and penultimate chapter with an all-out assault. Who will survive? Who will not? What will emerge from the flames? Til next time...


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins. Things are lost. Things are found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here is the penultimate chapter when a lot of plot strands come to a head and its Jon/Sam/Gilly versus Ramsay and his men. I really hope you like this!

 

Jon and Sam dress, and then race to the armoury, followed by Gilly. Sam has never been inside before, never had a reason to, but finds a small wood-panelled room, filled with swords, battle-axes, and all kinds of materials.

“This is Mormont’s - he was always prepared in case of invasion, but…”

“Not quite what he had imagined.”

“Exactly. I need you and Gilly to go as high as you can. The roof if you can.” Jon rolls back a thick fabric cloth that covered a small table, revealing a glass case filled with crystal phials.

“What are these?” Gilly asks.

“Some kind of incendiary device. He worked with an alchemist or a chemist from several cities away to especially procure these.”

“You want us to drop these on the men outside.”

“If you don’t have a problem with that.”

Sam swallows down his revulsion as Gilly steps forward to carefully take the phials from inside the case. “We can handle this.”

“Good. Take one of these each in case.” Jon hands Sam a pair of short swords, and a crossbow. “Go, now.”

“And you?” Sam asks. His heart is racing, his palms are sweaty. Jon nods at a longsword atop a mantlepiece. It gleams brightly. “Valyrian steel. Should be enough to cut these bastards down.”

“Just… stay safe. Please.” Jon kisses his forehead then his lips. They embrace, and then Gilly is pulling Sam away and up the staircase, just as another incendiary crashes through a glass panel and explodes. The fire engulfs

Gilly leads Sam out onto the roof. The night is dark, and stars are few above them. Sam leans a little over the edge of the roof, to see a dozen or so Bolton men. Lightly armoured, weapons drawn. One of them launches a flaming bottle of rum through one of the sets of windows.

“They’re getting closer!” Gilly yells, and lets loose an arrow from her crossbow. The arrow flies with a hiss and sinks into the throat of one of the Bolton men, collapsing him with a cry.

Sam grabs one of the phials and carefully uncaps it, releasing the scent of woodsmoke and spoiled meat. He prays to the Father and the Warrior and the Smith for all their help and their aim, and when that doesn’t work in granting him courage, Sam thinks _Please let this work_ and lets the phial fly over the edge of the stone battlements.

The sounds of screaming fills the air, and Sam peers down. The phial has smashed into two of Bolton’s men, catching them as they aimed upwards at Gilly and Sam, and the liquid inside the vial begins to smoke and singe their skin. The men try patting themselves down, sinking to the ground to remove the corrosive fluid, and Sam averts his gaze before he could see something he could not.

He ducks beneath the edge of the battlement, eyes on the ground below, and sees another Bolton man sink to the ground, the end of a longsword wrenched from his throat, and Jon standing above him.

Sam resists the urge to call out to him, but clutches the battlement for support.

“Come on, Snow!” A voice calls out from the smoke and the darkness. Sam watches as a man steps out from the shadows. Tall, heavy-built, grinning. “Is that the best that a wolf can give? I’ve worn your kind as pelts. I expect better.”

“Leave now,” Jon said, “and I won’t flay you for your trouble, Snow.”

Ramsay Bolton’s smile fades at the corners, confidence shaken. “I’m legitimised, bastard. Not like you.”

“And yet all you want is me. My claim.”

“It’ll be the only time in your life someone wants you for something useful. You might even die with something to your name.”

Jon wipes his sword off on the edge of his breeches. “It’s better to die with honour than to live as something worse than an Other.”

“Your father had that same kind of honour, bastard. It still got him killed. That and your Lady Stark too.” Ramsay says tauntingly. Sam can see Jon’s face twitch with anger, his hand clench on his sword hilt.

Ramsay looks to his remaining men. Less than his good dozen now, but still enough. “Surrender now, and I’ll let the pig boy and the whore live.”

“I’m really supposed to believe that.”

“They’re nothing to me. If you fight, however, and waste me anymore men, I’ll make sure I kill them in front of you. The fat useless fool and that little wildling cunt who escaped. And I’ll make it slow. I’ll make them scream, Snow.”

Ramsay raises his eyes to the battlements and grins, and Sam feels it in his veins, as cold as ice right into his heart. He’s staring into the eyes of a monster.

Jon’s sword sings as it slices clean through the neck of one of Ramsay’s men a second later, and Jon turns, fire and fury and the light in the dark. “Come and take them. But it will be through my dead body.”

Gilly fires and Sam scoops up another phial, uncorking it, and throws it, anger and fear pushing through his veins. The phial shatters as one of Ramsay’s men aims a fiery bottle at one of the windows, and the man becomes a pillar of silent fire, sinking to his knees.

Jon is a blur of motion and movement, slicing, ducking, chopping. He takes down two more of Bolton’s men, yelling. He’s a maelstrom of a man.

The Bolton men are more scared now, two breaking flank, giving Gilly the chance to sink a bolt into the chest of one, while Sam tosses a phial at the feet of another.

Ramsay spins on his feet, dragging something free from his neck with a snap, and he throws it at Jon. The object clips Jon in the neck and then Jon… starts to shift. His armour and leathers fold around him, dropping to the ground, until Jon is white and furred and his eyes are red.

Ghost launches himself at the remaining men and Sam scrambles to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Gilly yells.

“He’s unprotected when he’s Ghost! Ramsay’s going to hurt him.” Sam says. Gilly nods after a beat.

“I’ll cover you. Do what you can do. And… stay safe, Sam.”

Sam nods, places the phials down at Gilly’s feet, grabs one of the swords, and hurries across the battlements and down the stairs.

The castle is ablaze in parts, and Sam uses his shirt to cover his mouth and nose. He’ll need to extinguish some parts to get Gilly out; but she has open air and heatproof stone to keep her safe for now. Right now, his priority is Ghost who is crying out as he tears into whomever he can.

Outside, the battle is raging - there are three men left of Bolton’s, Ramsay himself, and Ghost-Jon. Sam can’t take any of them really, but he grips his sword all the same. He’ll take down Ramsay, or die trying. The cause of all his trouble.

_For all of your trouble._

Maester Aemon’s words sing in Sam’s head like a struck bell and Sam clutches the vial he received. He doesn’t know what it’ll do, if it’ll make the problem worse, or save them all. All Sam knows is that he can try and he can die, and dying something worthwhile is better than running like a craven.

“I am no craven.” Sam whispers. He uncaps the vial and runs forward.

Ramsay sees him and grins and Sam ducks the swing of Ramsay’s blade by sheer luck, not skill, giving him the opportunity he needs to splash the contents of the vial in Ramsay’s smug, pudgy face.

One of Ramsay’s men trips him and Sam spills onto the floor. The man pulls him to his feet, holds him at sword point.

“Keep him.” Ramsay says. “Snow can watch his useless slow pig die first.”

Sam may be slow and fat, but he is far from useless. He’s ready.

It’s as Ramsay aims another blow at Ghost, that he drops his sword. Ramsay gasps, his voice groaning and shifting and gargling. He drops to his knees.

The men look confused, giving Gilly the opening she needs to fire a bolt into the throat of the one holding Sam, dropping him. Sam feels the nick of the blade, the thin trickle of blood on his throat, but he ignores it. His attention is wholly on Ramsay as he screams and transforms. And then as Ramsay rises to his legs.

Sam has seen Ramsay’s shape before. The monstrous visage, the twisted body. He’s a hukka. An abomination.

“This is what you’ve been hiding.” Sam whispers. His dream races into his mind - the monster and the wolf, the glowing eyes and the calls and the blood red skies. He wants to be sick. He wants to run. He doesn’t know what to do.

Ramsay leaps and snarls, pouncing onto Jon who rolls and skitters, jaws snapping and clashing as the two beasts circle one another. Their eyes are aglow with fire and Sam looks up at the battlements to see Gilly send another arrow flying free into the leg of a Bolton man. The other man is gone, running into the woods.

“Gilly!” Sam screams. She leans over to look at him. “Get out of there right now! Or I’m coming to get you!”

Gilly nods, scoops up her bow, and hurries off the rooftop. Sam levels his sword at Ramsay, his sinewy, taut body twisting to meet every one of Ghost-Jon’s hits. Jon has a bite down on his side, and Ramsay has one too. Rage is blurring their movements, making them sloppy and wild and terrifying.

"You're the monster." Sam whispers, loud enough in the quiet of the night for all to hear. "Not Jon. You. Inside and out. Rotten to the core." Ramsay snarls at Sam, but doesn't approach. Keeps his attention on Ghost-Jon.

Sam’s hand is trembling with sweat and fear, and it’s only Gilly’s movement behind him, the press of her cool, damp hand into his, that keeps him steady.

The howls scare him, though. Five long howls puncture the deadly calm of the night, close by. Sam touches his sword. Gilly readies her bow. If Ramsay’s dogs are to be believed, they’ll be vicious and hellish in a fair fight - and a fair fight is far away.

Ramsay is distracted for a moment by the howls, giving Ghost-Jon the chance to tear a slash down Ramsay’s side. He’s floored, crashing to the ground, and Sam has seconds to react as five wolves emerge from the woods, reaching the group in a moment.

Not just wolves - direwolves. The largest leading the pack, with smaller ones behind it. One has a slight limp to its run.

The shift happens while Sam stands over Ramsay’s injured body, filled with a horrible, sick mercy. Ramsay is whimpering in pain, and Sam has always hated to see something injured and in pain. When he looks up, he sees Jon is human again, naked, and staring at the five people standing in front of him.

A man Jon’s age, two girls younger than the first man, and two boys even younger. One of them has a slight limp to his movements. Jon’s eyes are wide and glassy and Sam wants to touch him, to reassure him, to bring him back to himself when Jon whispers, “Robb.”

The man - Robb - steps forward to embrace Jon clumsily, the pair hugging as the others surround Jon, quietly murmuring. Sam feels the pieces connect in his brain in a rush of understanding.

_The lost Stark children. Never found after the fall of Winterfell. Robb. Sansa. Arya. Brandon. Rickon._

“They’re alive.” Gilly says, and her eyes are shining with tears.

Then, Robb moves away from the pack and kneels down to take one of the discarded swords from the fallen Bolton men. He aims it at Ramsay’s exposed neck. Ramsay growls, the fear and pain dissipating into rage and disgust.

Robb’s voice is rough. “The North remembers.” He brings the sword down in a clean, true motion; and then it is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue/final chapter will be coming soon. There's a lot to close out - Jon and the Starks, their position in the village, what the future holds for all of them - but it will be here soon. Thank you to everyone who's read and commented and liked my little story so far. I hope I end it in a great way for you.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the battle, the survivors plan their futures - together or apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. Months of thinking and dreaming and writing and not writing have finally come to an end. This started out as a silly birthday fic for my dear friend cleromancy and instead became something else; sorry, cleromancy, if this isn't what you expected buddy. I'm proud of this fic for being the longest chapter-fic I've ever written and one of the ones closest to my heart. I hope you enjoy this final instalment as much as I did writing it.

**** The fires are put out in the morning, and despite the losses of building structure, there’s enough to save in Sam’s opinion. The library survived mostly unscathed, and there are enough rooms for the younger children to nap in.

Jon and Robb and Sansa and Arya spend hours in Jon’s study. Sam busies himself with helping Gilly tidy up. The bodies of Ramsay and his men are to be burnt in a pyre, to ensure that they were believed killed in the same fire that tore through Lord Mormont and now Lord Snow’s castle.

Sam keeps to himself for the three days afterwards. Jon is busy with his family, and Sam doesn’t want to intrude. He can’t imagine what Jon is experiencing.

That isn’t to say that Sam is left alone - members of Jon’s family insist on spending time with him, even through his half-hearted protests. Arya assesses him the morning after they extinguish the fires and bury the bodies, and takes to Gilly and her bow. “It’s just like shooting rabbits.” Gilly says, blithely.

Sansa visits him when he starts excavating the library. A lot of the books are charred, but salvagable; some are cinders. Most are fine. The fire didn’t spread too far here. Sansa kneels down, her borrowed skirt from Gilly spreading around her feet, to scoop up a slightly singed tome from the ground. “‘The Bear and The Maiden Fair’. I loved this book as a child.”

“So did I.” Sam says. “Any stories about knights and princesses. I was a disappointment to my father, I’m afraid.”

“Your family?” Sansa asks. Sam’s family fled when the Boltons invaded, Sam has heard from the remaining villagers when he visited to gather food and supplies. They hadn’t come for him - perhaps they presumed him dead in the fire. He thinks of Talla and Dickon and his mother, and prays that any affection they have for him isn’t sullied. He hopes that they’re safe.

“Gone.” Sam says, simply. “Left after Ramsay. They’re not worried about me.”

“I heard from Jon that they were safe.” Sansa says. She adds the book to the growing pile on the table. “He spoke of you a lot.”

“He’s been very good to me.” Sam says, hiding his blushing cheeks. “I can’t help but feel as though I’ve done little to repay his kindness.”

“You saved his life. You helped save all of our lives!” Sansa says. Two spots of colour are high in her pale cheeks. “You’re all he speaks about.” She reiterates.

Sam shuffles his papers around, until Sansa bows a little. “I will be back to help you with the clean up.” She doesn’t wait for a reply and quietly exits the library. Sam has no idea what’s gone on, but he turns his mind to the near-ruined library and gets back to work.

That night, there’s a knock on his door before dinner. Sam had been dozing on his bed, the moving of several hundred heavy books to safer spots in the castle earning him a nap, and he blurrily calls out, “Come in!” before he can think about it.

Jon enters, closes the door behind him. He looks thoughtful, pensive. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“What?” Sam asks, perplexed. “I haven’t. I’ve been giving you… time and space with your family. You and Robb and the others needed space to sort out what you’re going to do. Make arrangements. You didn’t need me there.”

“Didn’t I?” Jon asks. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been here - “

“Don’t you dare apologise.” Sam interjects. “Your family is back, Jon. Your brothers and sisters. You have the right to have as much time as you need.”

“And us?”

“What about us?”

“I mean… Gods, I mean, are we alright? I know that things were… disrupted.”

“Just a bit.” Sam grins and waves off blithely. “Takes more than an invasion though.”

“Good.” Jon smiles and leans in to kiss Sam. They trade kisses back and forth, leisurely, on Sam’s soft bed for a little while, until Jon breaks away. “Gods I’ve missed that.”

“You’re not the only one.” Sam jokes. “So… what is going to happen then?”

“Robb wants us to go back to Wintefell. Ramsay’s men have scattered now there’s no one paying them. A couple of the older Northern houses have kept it secure for us to return.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I think so.” Jon says, his head cushioned on Sam’s shoulder. “I just…” He trails off.

“What is it?”

“Come with me.” Jon says. “To Winterfell. You wouldn’t - there’d be no serving or anything, you’re not - I mean - I want you there if you want to be there.”

“The North? I don’t know, Jon.” Sam says. He’s only ever known the Reach his whole life. The temperate climate, the easy knowledge of growing up in the same region. He might be even more useless up North, which is harsh and unforgiving by all accounts.

“You don’t have to. If you don’t want. If you wanted to stay down here, I could arrange something. You could… I don’t know.”

“Live here?”

“Well, no, not with the fire damage and all but… something. I could arrange something.” Jon says, even though the words seem torn out of the roots of him. “Even if it means you staying down here while I go up North, I want you to be happy.” Jon lapses into silence, his hand resting warm and heavy over Sam’s heart.

Sam thinks.

He thinks of everything he’s leaving behind. The comfort of the town, even as it trapped him. The safety. He thinks of everything he could lose if he goes with Jon - his life, his mind, his heart. He’d be running with wolves while they try and build a risky future on the promise of old loyalties and fresh losses.

Sam thinks about leaving Jon, and about how his heart would splinter in shards like frozen, glittering ice underfoot. He knows what to say.

“Yes.” Sam says. Jon looks up at him, eyes hopeful and as blue as Winterfell roses. “Of course I’m going to come with you. If you’ll have me.”

“I couldn’t do it without you.” Jon says, sealing it with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

 

They leave a week later for Winterfell. Robb receives ravens from the Manderleys and the Mormonts who will support their claim to retake Winterfell. Robb will rule and the others will rebuild as best they can.

Sam and Gilly pack up as many books as possible from the library to pack in the carts and carriages they bought from the villagers with Jon’s funds. Jon will sell everything he can once he reaches Winterfell - Lord Mormont will be happy in some way, that some good can come of the ruined home.

“I’m worried.” Gilly says to Sam as they load up the carriages. “The North, it’s…”

“Scary. I know.” Sam reassures her. “But you’re with family. If there’s anything I’ve learnt from direwolves, once you’re pack you’re pack for life. They’d not let you go.”

Gilly smiles, comforted. She and Arya have bonded over archery and Gilly’s experiences of being a wildling, and while she and Sansa could not be more different, Sansa takes great delight in combing through Gilly’s tangled hair until it glows and so does Gilly.

Sam has imagined what it’d be like to see them run as wolves. Sam could practically see it - Bran and Rickon leading, Robb and Jon at the back of the pack. Eyes wild, fur shining, voices howling under the full moon.

The day that they’re going leave rises soft and quiet. Sam double checks the rooms, collecting the miscellania they might miss, and makes sure to take all the cutlery. They’ve got a lot of mouths to feed after all. He’s said his goodbyes to Maester Aemon, and given his thanks. Aemon had merely smiled and wished them luck.

They pile into the caravans - Robb leads the first with Sansa and Bran and Rickon in the caravan, while Arya and Jon take the second, with Sam and Gilly in the back. Sam turns to watch the mansion - Lord Snow’s home, he thinks - as the caravan crests the hill, and it slowly fades away from sight.

They travel the whole day, and Winterfell is still several days away. They’ve made good time nontheless, even with their heavy weight of books and new family members, and Sam feels good.

He sits under the stars in the clearing they’ve found. Sansa is cooking rabbit from the larders and Arya is playing with Bran and Rickon. Robb and Gilly talk a little by the fire.

Jon rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, his hand tucked under Sam’s shirt and into his side for warmth. Sam kisses his on the side of his head and leans closer. Their futures are uncertain, their lives perilous. As they sit, Bolton’s troops could be planning revenge or another house could be planning a coup of Winterfell.

Somehow, however, Sam thinks everything will turn out alright. He tucks his hand into Jon’s side, lacing his fingers through Jon’s, and tilts his head skywards so that he might bless and count his lucky stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! I promise to keep writing Jon/Sam fics and I hope you enjoyed this escapade. The title of the fic comes from the incomparable Disney classic 'Beauty and the Beast' which was the key inspiration for this work.


End file.
